I would not say that I have lived in a lot of places, but I have lived in a few. Each time you move to a new city you face the same challenges: finding a new gynecologist, a hairstylist, friends, the best Thai restaurant, and which neighborhoods - or people - to avoid. Funny as it seems, the definition of "scary" people changes depending on the geography.
For example, living in Seattle and the Bay area was pretty mild, but not without its bottom feeders. I could not get used to the street kids holding signs asking for money, food and/or beer. I just knew in my heart of hearts they had rich families who cared for them and they were just too bratty and/or lazy to deal with household rules. I secretly wished they would put half as much energy into filling out a job application at Arbys - like I had to do when I was 14. No, it's not glamorous, but neither is sitting on a street corner looking filthy begging for money. Annoying - yes. Scary - absolutely not.
Chicago was a different beast because it all depended on what neighborhood you were in. The first neighborhood our U-Haul pulled into was Lincoln Park - nothing but rich, yuppie white people, Cubs fans, and a handful of gays (given its proximity to Boys Town). The vibe was pretty safe and mild - unless the Cubs were playing the Sox in the Cross Town Classic - then things got ghetto real fast. The white, yuppie sports fans kept the neighborhood sporty and frat-like while the gays kept it colorful, stylish and fit. Not scary at all for the third largest city in the U.S.
After Lincoln Park, we ventured about three miles west to an area called Bucktown/Wicker Park. According to more than one cabbie, it used to be impossible to catch a cab in those parts - nothing but buses and bullets. Not so when we lived there. The artists had pretty much moved in and made the neighborhood hip, trendy, and increasingly expensive. There was however, a prostitution problem in the area. This was only apparent if you had to walk your dog between the hours of 5-7 a.m. - which, unfortunately I did. This problem was pretty much isolated to young, scabby, drug-seeking Polish girls (the prostitutes) and scummy, good-for-nothing Guido's just getting off the night-shift. For some reason unknown to me, they all LOVED our alley at Oakley and North Avenue. Apparently, every morning when I awoke to walk Eddie, our pug, I must have looked eerily similar to a Polish prostitute. Yes, I was white and had just rolled out of bed, but it was MY bed. You know, the one I share with my HUSBAND you asshole. With my hair disheveled and dark circles under my tired eyes, these grody dudes would slow their shit box of a car down to about 1 mile an hour and stare at me in hopes I would give them some sort of quote for my services. My best and final offer was always my middle finger in their faces just after I pointed down to Eddie who was conveniently taking a crap on the sidewalk.
The prostitutes, on the other hand, were fairly nice and loved Eddie. He was quite the ladies man on the block. It's probably because he licked their scabby legs while we made small talk over whether or not they could bum a cigarette. Seeing how I don't smoke, my answer was always more than a little disappointing.
To my surprise, I did learn from one of the more friendly prostitutes that the going rate for a back alley blow job was $20. Are you kidding me? Ladies, if your blow job is worth a mere $20, then re-evaluate your services and hone in on your craft. That is repulsive and simply not right. Where is your self respect? And if that is all these guys can afford, then get some Neosporin, clear up your scabs, take a shower, brush your tooth and move to California. Surely, you could hook up with a celebrity reject like Charlie Sheen, become a goddess for a few days and bring in $30 grand in a flash! Hmmm....a $20 blow job or $30k for an evening. You do the math. (Perhaps long division is not their strong suit).
Then we moved to Madison and Hoyne - directly across the street from the United Center. The neighborhood was so new and so black, that it didn't really have a name yet - and that is what made it "affordable." Our condo building was wedged right next to a crack house that housed about a 100 killer chiuaua dogs. We had the occasional VIN-less abandoned car with bullet holes, late night domestic violence, and a slew of petty car thefts. Although we would hear gunfire at night, which at first can be rather disturbing, by morning things were always pretty calm outside. Never once did I get harassed, threatened or exposed to bodily harm. This led me to believe that the black people in my neighborhood really could care less about little ol' white me. They had bigger fish to fry. They had to save their bullets for other gun-carrying thugs and gangstas who meant business. In fact, I never had anything but kind gestures from my crack head neighbors. For example, when they were imprisoning flee-infested baby chiuaua puppies in their light-less, confined, stifling hot backyard shed, they offered to sell me one for $20. That was a real deal on a AKC puppy in Chicago. Or, better yet, when I came home from the hospital having had a C-Section and unable to get to the local Walgreen's for my pain meds before it closed, they offered me free drugs to help me with the pain. Now, if that's not a "Giver" attitude, I don't know what is. All in all, it was a very nice neighborhood to live in. And, if any of you out there would like to buy that very condo, please call...it is still for sale after five years on the market. Wink, wink.
After trading in the homeless street kids, Lincoln Park yuppies/gays, Polish prostitutes, and charitable black drug dealers, we moved to Yakima. Appropriately dubbed the "Palm Springs of Washington" - I later find out that it is also dubbed Yaki-Vegas or Yaki-Crack...we were certain that we were moving to some sort of rural, small town paradise. Surely there would be nothing but rainbows and unicorns and friendly, out-going small town folk ready to welcome us to this glorious community. But, we soon found out that most white people consider the Mexicans to be their annoying version of the street kid, yuppie/gay, polish prostitute, black drug dealer. Now, my husband is Mexican, but unclaimed by most Mexicans in town. They probably find him pretty embarrassing. He is not Catholic, he has never been to a quinceanera, and despite growing up with a Father who's first language was Spanish - he can only say gracias, adios, and count to ten. He's kind of a Mexican reject around here. He's pretty hot though, so I still claim him.
I'm not sure why people have such great disdain for the Mexicans in Yakima. After all, they make amazing carne asada tacos, they provide only the most economical labor to harvest our abundant crops, and most embody family values like no other. (Excluding the Mormons, of course). Sure, I get the overcrowding argument, or who is paying for their health care, bla bla bla, but I don't want to get into those things right now. And, true, there is the pesky little problem of gang violence. But that really only occurs amongst other Mexican gang members, and as long as you stay above 16th Avenue, you are highly unlikely to get hit by a stray bullet. Let's get real. White people are rarely hurt by Mexicans - ever.
You want to know what really scares me here in Yakima? Poor, meth-addicted white guys without a hope or a dream. I'm telling you, there ain't nothing scarier than a desperate white person with nothing to lose. Just drive out to West Valley amongst all the trailer parks appropriately named "Paradise Valley" or "Golden Villa" and you will see some scary sights and some freaky people. Or, if West Valley isn't your thang, go hang out in Spokane for a few days. There are plenty of scary, desperate white people there.
I am super sensitive to the scary white guy for one major reason. To help put this into perspective, we recently had a 20-something, meth-addicted white guy - not too far from our house - creep into a gated community (near his trailer park no less) and randomly bludgeon a family of three with a hammer. A hammer! Three people at random with a hammer! That is scary crazy stuff! And let's not mention the real white serial killer psychos like Dahmer, Manson, Bundy, and Gacy. In fact, the Top 10 Evil Serial Killers List contains 9 white guys and 1 Pakistani - and I'm pretty sure the guy from Pakistan had some white in him too. Coincidence? I think not. Unfortunately, it is a horrifically valid stereotype.
Well, if you are smart, and you want to steer clear of an extremely violent, random act of violence, always run when you come in contact with a white guy without a conscience, hope or a dream. Nine out of ten times, it's a white guy. (Maybe you should be optimistically cautious around Pakistani men too...one out of ten times isn't a statistic I'm willing to challenge.)
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Scene of the Crash
Unfortunately I have been afflicted with a magnitude of fears. I don't enjoy this about myself and I wish it was something that I could change. I have a long list of things I would change if I could - my national geographic boobs, curly hair, climbing gas prices, and my near insane fear of death. While the others are mainly superficial in nature, the death one really keeps me up at night.
Like anyone else, I would prefer my death to come later, rather than sooner - I'm guessing I would feel most comfortable living somewhere between the ages of 100 and 103. This, of course, would be my preference if I had my mind, mobility, and bowel movements still intact. At that point, I might even like my curly hair which will certainly prevent me from getting those god awful perms that old ladies seem to adore.
Right now, the single most obsessive fear I have is the fear of flying. Let me clarify. The fear of dying in a plane crash. This has been a fear of mine since high school and I have had many years of practicing this fear. Ask anyone who has flown with me and they will tell you that I am not exaggerating one bit. Have you ever seen a grown woman in her tiny airplane seat in the fetal position, gently rocking back and forth, hands over her ears humming loudly? That was probably me.
My aunt and I debate over the worst way to go. She says, hands down, dying in a car wreck would surely be the worst. No way! Usually a car wreck is instant. No time to think. Just BAM! How many times do you read..."so and so died upon impact and was pronounced dead at the scene." Not that I want to die in a car wreck, but I'm just saying, if it is going to happen, let it be in an instant. I will agree, however, that when the "jaws of life" are involved - my theory falters a bit.
A plane crash, on the other hand, terrifies me to the very core of my being. I don't obsess about the actual "crash" part of the situation, but the four or five minutes of falling out of the sky and being infinitely aware of my impending death. In my mind, I can hear the screaming, chaos and terror in the cabin. I can imagine the feeling of free falling 38,000 feet - or whatever cruising altitude is these days. That seems like enough time to really ponder your demise in a pretty horrific setting. I can picture the fuselage shaking violently as oxygen masks drop from overheard. I vividly hear ladies screaming, and babies crying while the latest issue of People magazine and some body's orange juice flies overhead. Will the flight attendants strap themselves in? Or are they programmed to just keep comforting everyone even though they know it is pointless.
Gross, right? Possibly insane? I guess so.
Now, I do have to pat myself on the back for one thing. Even though I hate to fly - and clearly "hate" is an understatement - I still choose to do so every chance I have the opportunity to go somewhere. I guess that is where my love for travel trumps my fear of death. But despite being willing to travel on an airplane, I have had to come up with some "methods" to help get me through the ordeal.
For instance, upon boarding, I have to "tap" the exterior of the plane three times for good luck. (Thanks, Regina, for imparting this OCD compulsion on an already crazy passenger!). I'm not sure how this helps exactly, but I do it religiously. I suppose it is no "weirder" than a baseball player having to wear his lucky underwear or grabbing his nuts three times before he pitches the ball.
Before the flight attendants secure the aircraft, and for sure before we taxi down the runway, I have to say this very specific prayer. Of course, it is one that I made up, but so far it has seemed to work:
Dear God. Please watch over this plane. Please touch the hands of the pilots and see to it that they fly this plane safely. Please watch over everyone on board and see to it that they get to their final destinations safely. Please watch over Ava, Lorenzo and Angelo (and each of the grandparents watching them...and Eddie, our dog) and see to it that we are reunited once again. And, if anything should have to happen, please help take away the fear in my heart. Amen.
Not only do I think that pretty much covers everything, but it makes me feel slightly less selfish that I wish everyone else to be safe and reunited with their loved ones. Nice touch, right?
I also used to subscribe to the notion that God wouldn't allow a plane to crash if it had children on board. I have unsubscribed to this notion because 1) I know that isn't true, and 2) on my 21st birthday I was forced to delete this rule when I took a Reno Funjet flight with a bunch of old people to go gambling with family. Even still, I do find it slightly comforting when there are a lot of children on board - but only if they are not crying, whining, kicking my chair, or sitting anywhere near me.
When booking a flight, I have this weird criteria and checklist that runs through my brain. Alaska? No, I can't fly Alaska because they had that one plane crash over the Pacific Ocean. You know, the one where the plane would take these extremely long nose dives, then miraculously recover, and then nosedive, then recover...well, you know how that ended. Splash.
Definitely can't fly American. American has had numerous crashes including the 2001 crash in New York City. So, maybe I can take American, but only if I'm flying on the West Coast. As far as I know, American Airlines has never crashed on the West Coast.
Believe me, this inner dialogue goes on and on. I know, it's pretty sick.
Once I have committed to flying, and I actually board the plane, there are a few circumstances that force me to consider the fetal position. Here is a short list:
The pilot came over the intercom and said "Hey, we're losing oil pressure in one of the engines," which I couldn't understand why he did, because he could have just turned around and said, "Hey, we're losing oil pressure." Everyone else started freaking out, but I had been drinking since lunchtime, so I was like "Take it down! I don't care! Make sure you hit something hard, 'cause I don't want to limp away from this!" The guy next to me is *losing his mind*. I guess he must have had something to "live for". He says, "Hey man, if one of the engines goes out, how far will the other one take us?" I look at him. "All the way to the scene of the crash! Which is pretty lucky, because that's where we're headed! I bet we beat the paramedics by a good half hour! We're haulin' ass!"
My special cocktail must make me feel like I have "a lot less to live for" - which apparently is good when I'm flying! I am currently sitting in sunny Florida, having survived three flights to get here. Yay! Unfortunately for me, I have another three I have to survive on Wednesday to get back home. Don't worry, I have adequately rationed my Xanax and Ambien (thanks, November!) and I'll be sure to save at least $20 bucks in my pocket so I can partake in two over-priced pre-flight aperitifs.
Wish me luck. I hope to see you all again someday. Preferably on land and not at the scene of the crash :)
Like anyone else, I would prefer my death to come later, rather than sooner - I'm guessing I would feel most comfortable living somewhere between the ages of 100 and 103. This, of course, would be my preference if I had my mind, mobility, and bowel movements still intact. At that point, I might even like my curly hair which will certainly prevent me from getting those god awful perms that old ladies seem to adore.
Right now, the single most obsessive fear I have is the fear of flying. Let me clarify. The fear of dying in a plane crash. This has been a fear of mine since high school and I have had many years of practicing this fear. Ask anyone who has flown with me and they will tell you that I am not exaggerating one bit. Have you ever seen a grown woman in her tiny airplane seat in the fetal position, gently rocking back and forth, hands over her ears humming loudly? That was probably me.
My aunt and I debate over the worst way to go. She says, hands down, dying in a car wreck would surely be the worst. No way! Usually a car wreck is instant. No time to think. Just BAM! How many times do you read..."so and so died upon impact and was pronounced dead at the scene." Not that I want to die in a car wreck, but I'm just saying, if it is going to happen, let it be in an instant. I will agree, however, that when the "jaws of life" are involved - my theory falters a bit.
A plane crash, on the other hand, terrifies me to the very core of my being. I don't obsess about the actual "crash" part of the situation, but the four or five minutes of falling out of the sky and being infinitely aware of my impending death. In my mind, I can hear the screaming, chaos and terror in the cabin. I can imagine the feeling of free falling 38,000 feet - or whatever cruising altitude is these days. That seems like enough time to really ponder your demise in a pretty horrific setting. I can picture the fuselage shaking violently as oxygen masks drop from overheard. I vividly hear ladies screaming, and babies crying while the latest issue of People magazine and some body's orange juice flies overhead. Will the flight attendants strap themselves in? Or are they programmed to just keep comforting everyone even though they know it is pointless.
Gross, right? Possibly insane? I guess so.
Now, I do have to pat myself on the back for one thing. Even though I hate to fly - and clearly "hate" is an understatement - I still choose to do so every chance I have the opportunity to go somewhere. I guess that is where my love for travel trumps my fear of death. But despite being willing to travel on an airplane, I have had to come up with some "methods" to help get me through the ordeal.
For instance, upon boarding, I have to "tap" the exterior of the plane three times for good luck. (Thanks, Regina, for imparting this OCD compulsion on an already crazy passenger!). I'm not sure how this helps exactly, but I do it religiously. I suppose it is no "weirder" than a baseball player having to wear his lucky underwear or grabbing his nuts three times before he pitches the ball.
Before the flight attendants secure the aircraft, and for sure before we taxi down the runway, I have to say this very specific prayer. Of course, it is one that I made up, but so far it has seemed to work:
Dear God. Please watch over this plane. Please touch the hands of the pilots and see to it that they fly this plane safely. Please watch over everyone on board and see to it that they get to their final destinations safely. Please watch over Ava, Lorenzo and Angelo (and each of the grandparents watching them...and Eddie, our dog) and see to it that we are reunited once again. And, if anything should have to happen, please help take away the fear in my heart. Amen.
Not only do I think that pretty much covers everything, but it makes me feel slightly less selfish that I wish everyone else to be safe and reunited with their loved ones. Nice touch, right?
I also used to subscribe to the notion that God wouldn't allow a plane to crash if it had children on board. I have unsubscribed to this notion because 1) I know that isn't true, and 2) on my 21st birthday I was forced to delete this rule when I took a Reno Funjet flight with a bunch of old people to go gambling with family. Even still, I do find it slightly comforting when there are a lot of children on board - but only if they are not crying, whining, kicking my chair, or sitting anywhere near me.
When booking a flight, I have this weird criteria and checklist that runs through my brain. Alaska? No, I can't fly Alaska because they had that one plane crash over the Pacific Ocean. You know, the one where the plane would take these extremely long nose dives, then miraculously recover, and then nosedive, then recover...well, you know how that ended. Splash.
Definitely can't fly American. American has had numerous crashes including the 2001 crash in New York City. So, maybe I can take American, but only if I'm flying on the West Coast. As far as I know, American Airlines has never crashed on the West Coast.
Believe me, this inner dialogue goes on and on. I know, it's pretty sick.
Once I have committed to flying, and I actually board the plane, there are a few circumstances that force me to consider the fetal position. Here is a short list:
- Take offs, descents, and landings. These are the most critical times during a flight.
- Banking. I really hate banking. I think a few flights have crashed because of banking too hard.
- Announcing altitude. Why? I absolutely do NOT want to know how high we are. The pilot is sick if he thinks it is comforting to know that a ten ton capsule filled with people is hovering at 36,000 feet in the sky.
- Illuminating the seat belt sign because it is too unsafe to unbuckle, go to the bathroom, or be in the upright position. If any of those things are unsafe, then get me out of here!
- Turbulence. Period. I did not pay for a carnival ride. I would prefer my flight be as smooth as a baby's butt.
- Safety instructions of any kind, especially when we are flying over miles and miles of dry land. Do not tell me how my seat can be used as a floatation device. I'm pretty sure that is not going to help me if we crash land in the desert.
The pilot came over the intercom and said "Hey, we're losing oil pressure in one of the engines," which I couldn't understand why he did, because he could have just turned around and said, "Hey, we're losing oil pressure." Everyone else started freaking out, but I had been drinking since lunchtime, so I was like "Take it down! I don't care! Make sure you hit something hard, 'cause I don't want to limp away from this!" The guy next to me is *losing his mind*. I guess he must have had something to "live for". He says, "Hey man, if one of the engines goes out, how far will the other one take us?" I look at him. "All the way to the scene of the crash! Which is pretty lucky, because that's where we're headed! I bet we beat the paramedics by a good half hour! We're haulin' ass!"
My special cocktail must make me feel like I have "a lot less to live for" - which apparently is good when I'm flying! I am currently sitting in sunny Florida, having survived three flights to get here. Yay! Unfortunately for me, I have another three I have to survive on Wednesday to get back home. Don't worry, I have adequately rationed my Xanax and Ambien (thanks, November!) and I'll be sure to save at least $20 bucks in my pocket so I can partake in two over-priced pre-flight aperitifs.
Wish me luck. I hope to see you all again someday. Preferably on land and not at the scene of the crash :)
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Are You There God? It's Me, Amy...
Every Saint has a past, and ever Sinner has a future. Can I hear an Amen!
Yes, this was my favorite quote from Phaedra, Atlanta's newest housewife. Phaedra should know. Her mamma is a Baptist preacher and she is the epitome of a Southern Belle - her words, not mine. Geez. Maybe I really am a black girl trapped in a white girl's body.
I loved the saying though. So simple, but so true.
Religion can be such a personal and passionate topic - especially when you feel lost and uncertain about it all. It's not that I am uncertain about God...I just cannot debate my thoughts and feelings based solely upon scripture. While I might not agree with everyone on every issue, I am open to listening to other people's beliefs and religious preferences. And, I am respectful enough to think everyone has a right to express their beliefs however they choose to do so.
Do I believe in God? Yes.
Have I ever "felt" the presence of God? No.
Does that make me a bad person? Maybe.
I admit that growing up Catholic left me defunct on one major subject - The Bible. If I think back to all the times I went to church, my first Communion, and later, my Confirmation, I really only remember complete and utter boredom. Sure, I knew when to sit, when to stand, when to kneel, and when to recite after the priest. While the "up" "down" "up" "down" "kneel" "down" "up" certainly kept the old people from getting a DVT, the content of the message never really resonated in my soul.
I did, however, find comfort in the ritualistic nature of the ceremony. Life brings so much uncertainty, but a Catholic mass, to me, has a tranquil peace about it. I also love the beauty of the church itself. The ornate stained glass, vaulted ceilings that seem to echo the priest's songs, solid wood pews, and the formality of the mass gave me a sense of respect for God. Walking through the Vatican in Italy instantaneously brought tears to my eyes - I definitely felt the presence of God there.
I sporadically attended CCD - no, I cannot even tell you what that stands for - and I honestly do not remember ever learning a thing about the Bible. To this date, my husband will ask me, "Remember that one story in the bible about..." Um, no I don't. As a matter of fact, it doesn't even sound vaguely familiar. Surely there are millions of Catholics out there who study the bible and can, in fact, recite scripture. Apparently I am not one of them. Needless to say, my attendance eventually went from poor to non-existent.
My husband, on the other hand, grew up with a very strong "relationship" with God. If I had to categorize, based on my limited experience and exposure, I would say his family leaned more towards Evangelism. Going from the strict, controlled, ritualistic Catholic mass to loud music, people dancing in the aisles with arms and hands open to the sky, seemed a little weird. Okay, really weird. I felt completely uncomfortable and like a total outsider. I have way too many inhibitions to be so uninhibited.
At first, I think the easiest reaction to any uncomfortable situation is to mock what you do not understand. Let's face it. There appears to be a lot of material to work with. And even worse, I had a very hard time buying that all the emotion was real. Grown men with tears in their eyes in total and complete surrender? Small groups of people huddling around individuals who need prayer? What next? Was the guy in the wheel chair going to get up and walk right before my eyes?
As I grew older and started having kids, I found myself really conflicted about religion. (Or, my "personal relationship" with God...whatever the preferred terminology is). On one hand, I truly believe in God. And on the other hand, I do not read the bible, attend church, or believe that I have actually ever felt his presence. Something tells me there is a disconnect here.
The problem is, I never felt completely fulfilled with Catholicism. And to be honest, when in the presence of ultra conservative Christians or Evangelicals, I want to ram the tiding basket up some body's... Never mind.
I cannot stand hypocrisy and/or judgement of others in any capacity. I understand that I appear to be the judge at this very moment, which I guess is true. But I am also not trying to portray myself as holier than anyone else. I am not claiming to be perfect, God-like, or saved while I cheat on my spouse, sleep with prostitutes or molest small children (that one is for all the Catholics out there!). That, to me, is a total turn off.
I am also turned off by others who think they are somehow a member of the ONLY religion going to heaven. Can you categorically declare that ALL Mormons, ALL Catholics, and ALL Muslims are going to hell? Really? In my heart of hearts, to the core of my being, I just do not believe that one bit. Again, maybe that is spelled out exactly in those terms in the bible somewhere, and I admit I could be completely wrong. And if that is the case, then guess what People? I will have to answer to God himself when I arrive at His pearly gates. As will all the Catholics, Mormons, Muslims and hundreds of other self-proclaimed religious folk. Ultimately, is not God the only person that can and should judge us anyway?
Until that moment, as I continue my personal quest for a relationship with God, I would like to accept others as they wish to be accepted. I would like to have tolerance for people and their individual choices. I would like to believe that this, too, is how Jesus would live. I refuse to believe that I am more accepting, loving, and tolerant than Jesus Christ himself.
I do know that in order to be "saved" there are a few things you have to believe. So, before you all, here is my open letter to Jesus.
Dear Jesus,
I admit that I am a sinner, deserving of Hell. Please forgive me of my sins and take me to Heaven when I die. I now believe upon You alone for my salvation, apart from all works and religions.I call upon you as my personal Savior. Thank you. In Jesus name, I pray, Amen.
Now, I have prayed this very prayer before and I do honestly believe it. Unfortunately, for me, I still do not feel God's presence on a personal level, and maybe I never will. I do long for the day that I can have a "conversation" with him like so many others. I think that would be one conversation I would be interested in having. So, I guess I'm asking...Are you there God? It's me, Amy.
Hello? God?
Are you there?
Can You Hear Me Now?
Can You Hear Me Now?
Yes, this was my favorite quote from Phaedra, Atlanta's newest housewife. Phaedra should know. Her mamma is a Baptist preacher and she is the epitome of a Southern Belle - her words, not mine. Geez. Maybe I really am a black girl trapped in a white girl's body.
I loved the saying though. So simple, but so true.
Religion can be such a personal and passionate topic - especially when you feel lost and uncertain about it all. It's not that I am uncertain about God...I just cannot debate my thoughts and feelings based solely upon scripture. While I might not agree with everyone on every issue, I am open to listening to other people's beliefs and religious preferences. And, I am respectful enough to think everyone has a right to express their beliefs however they choose to do so.
Do I believe in God? Yes.
Have I ever "felt" the presence of God? No.
Does that make me a bad person? Maybe.
I admit that growing up Catholic left me defunct on one major subject - The Bible. If I think back to all the times I went to church, my first Communion, and later, my Confirmation, I really only remember complete and utter boredom. Sure, I knew when to sit, when to stand, when to kneel, and when to recite after the priest. While the "up" "down" "up" "down" "kneel" "down" "up" certainly kept the old people from getting a DVT, the content of the message never really resonated in my soul.
I did, however, find comfort in the ritualistic nature of the ceremony. Life brings so much uncertainty, but a Catholic mass, to me, has a tranquil peace about it. I also love the beauty of the church itself. The ornate stained glass, vaulted ceilings that seem to echo the priest's songs, solid wood pews, and the formality of the mass gave me a sense of respect for God. Walking through the Vatican in Italy instantaneously brought tears to my eyes - I definitely felt the presence of God there.
I sporadically attended CCD - no, I cannot even tell you what that stands for - and I honestly do not remember ever learning a thing about the Bible. To this date, my husband will ask me, "Remember that one story in the bible about..." Um, no I don't. As a matter of fact, it doesn't even sound vaguely familiar. Surely there are millions of Catholics out there who study the bible and can, in fact, recite scripture. Apparently I am not one of them. Needless to say, my attendance eventually went from poor to non-existent.
My husband, on the other hand, grew up with a very strong "relationship" with God. If I had to categorize, based on my limited experience and exposure, I would say his family leaned more towards Evangelism. Going from the strict, controlled, ritualistic Catholic mass to loud music, people dancing in the aisles with arms and hands open to the sky, seemed a little weird. Okay, really weird. I felt completely uncomfortable and like a total outsider. I have way too many inhibitions to be so uninhibited.
At first, I think the easiest reaction to any uncomfortable situation is to mock what you do not understand. Let's face it. There appears to be a lot of material to work with. And even worse, I had a very hard time buying that all the emotion was real. Grown men with tears in their eyes in total and complete surrender? Small groups of people huddling around individuals who need prayer? What next? Was the guy in the wheel chair going to get up and walk right before my eyes?
As I grew older and started having kids, I found myself really conflicted about religion. (Or, my "personal relationship" with God...whatever the preferred terminology is). On one hand, I truly believe in God. And on the other hand, I do not read the bible, attend church, or believe that I have actually ever felt his presence. Something tells me there is a disconnect here.
The problem is, I never felt completely fulfilled with Catholicism. And to be honest, when in the presence of ultra conservative Christians or Evangelicals, I want to ram the tiding basket up some body's... Never mind.
I cannot stand hypocrisy and/or judgement of others in any capacity. I understand that I appear to be the judge at this very moment, which I guess is true. But I am also not trying to portray myself as holier than anyone else. I am not claiming to be perfect, God-like, or saved while I cheat on my spouse, sleep with prostitutes or molest small children (that one is for all the Catholics out there!). That, to me, is a total turn off.
I am also turned off by others who think they are somehow a member of the ONLY religion going to heaven. Can you categorically declare that ALL Mormons, ALL Catholics, and ALL Muslims are going to hell? Really? In my heart of hearts, to the core of my being, I just do not believe that one bit. Again, maybe that is spelled out exactly in those terms in the bible somewhere, and I admit I could be completely wrong. And if that is the case, then guess what People? I will have to answer to God himself when I arrive at His pearly gates. As will all the Catholics, Mormons, Muslims and hundreds of other self-proclaimed religious folk. Ultimately, is not God the only person that can and should judge us anyway?
Until that moment, as I continue my personal quest for a relationship with God, I would like to accept others as they wish to be accepted. I would like to have tolerance for people and their individual choices. I would like to believe that this, too, is how Jesus would live. I refuse to believe that I am more accepting, loving, and tolerant than Jesus Christ himself.
I do know that in order to be "saved" there are a few things you have to believe. So, before you all, here is my open letter to Jesus.
Dear Jesus,
I admit that I am a sinner, deserving of Hell. Please forgive me of my sins and take me to Heaven when I die. I now believe upon You alone for my salvation, apart from all works and religions.I call upon you as my personal Savior. Thank you. In Jesus name, I pray, Amen.
Now, I have prayed this very prayer before and I do honestly believe it. Unfortunately, for me, I still do not feel God's presence on a personal level, and maybe I never will. I do long for the day that I can have a "conversation" with him like so many others. I think that would be one conversation I would be interested in having. So, I guess I'm asking...Are you there God? It's me, Amy.
Hello? God?
Are you there?
Can You Hear Me Now?
Can You Hear Me Now?
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